Champion
by callalili
Summary: Before she was the Champion of Cyrodiil, she was Martin Septim's errand girl. He's not sure why she's willing to risk her life to hunt down Daedric artifacts and Welkynd Stones. She's not entirely certain, either.
1. The Prince

Martin is kind of cute, even in the game, and afterward I just sort of let my imagination run away with it.

* * *

Anger.

That is the first thing she notices about him; he is alone and afraid and furious, and for a moment she is surprised, because, after all, he is a priest of the Nine Divines. But then again, she reasons, Martin Septim has just seen his world crumble about him—the temple is besieged, his townsfolk are dead, Kvatch is swarming with daedra. He certainly has reason to be angry.

The second thing she notices about him is the weariness.

His shoulders droop with relief when she tells him that Kvatch is safe, and he runs a hand through his hair and mutters, "Thank the Nine." Martin Septim is not an old man. Certainly he cannot be more than thirty, if what Uriel Septim said was true; but here, in this moment beneath the burning towers of Kvatch and in the shadow of the ruined temple, the Septim heir looks ancient. He has had to live through the destruction of his city; he has had to provide aid and comfort in a time when he himself needed it most. So she understands, too, the weariness.

What she does not understand is his despair.

She speaks to him of his father, the Amulet, the Blades, the Dragonfires. But all Martin does is shake his head; she cannot tell if it is because he does not believe her, or if he does not want to. He follows her, of course. How could he not? Martin could never resist his duty; he is not that sort of man. But his despondence is dangerous—if it continues, she thinks wryly, then Lord Dagon has already won.

* * *

Martin Septim has eyes the color of the deep waters of Lake Rumare. He looks surprised when she tells him this, the next night, as they set up camp in the wilderness.

"Do I?" he asks. "I've never seen the lake."

Now it is her turn to be surprised, and she looks up from unsaddling her horse. "You've never been to the Imperial City?"

He shakes his head. "Never," he says, his mouth thinning into a firm line. "The opportunity never came. And I was always—needed elsewhere."

She can almost see the thought running through his head: _Needed elsewhere, for all the good it did for Kvatch._ She sighs.

It is not until much later that Martin speaks to her again. "I don't even know your name," he says abruptly. "You saved my life—you saved all our lives—and I'm still not sure what to call you."

She is seized by a sudden urge to see him smile. "What," she teases, "_Hero of Kvatch_ isn't good enough for you?"

Martin looks at her from across the flickering campfire. "It's quite a mouthful," he says, sounding rueful. "Anything a bit—shorter, perhaps?"

"How about just _Hero_, then?" she suggests.

And she might be imagining it, but she swears that she can see the corners of his mouth tilt up into a tiny smile.

* * *

They are another two days on the road before they reach Weynon Priory. The second evening they encounter a group of bandits just before nightfall, waiting to ambush them around a bend in the road. Martin, she discovers, is quite handy with the fireballs, though his aim could use some improvement. One stray spell nearly takes off her arm. She is surprised again. She had not imagined that a priest of the Nine would be so adept in destruction.

"I wasn't always a priest," Martin tells her when she asks. "Once I was a foolish, headstrong boy just like any other."

There is a story behind that, if the rueful quirk of his lips is any indication, but she does not press him just yet. She likes the way one side of his mouth tilts up higher than the other when he smiles; she likes the way his hands move, strong and steady as they bandage up her cuts. Martin would make a good emperor, she thinks, were it not for the anger, the weariness, the despair.

"You don't think we can do it," she says abruptly. "You don't think you'll make it to the throne."

He gives her a tired smile as he ties up the last of the bandages. "No," he says. "I don't."

"Why not?"

Martin shrugs and sits down beside her on the grass. "Who knows the plans of the Nine? Who knows if they have any plans at all? Do they even care what goes on in Tamriel? I think not."

"So it is a loss of faith."

He stares down at his hands. "I lost my faith six days ago when the deadra came swarming out of the oblivion gate," he says, quiet and fierce and furious. "No help came. I prayed and prayed, and still people died. Do you know what that feels like? To know that you are helpless, and that no one cares."

She sighs.

"I find things," she tells him. "It is a specialty of mine, it seems—I have found the thieves' guild, and the Dark Brotherhood, and a mage's lost sanity. I have found daedric shrines and secret passageways; I have sought out all the hidden places in Cyrodiil. But I cannot find your faith for you. You will have to recover it yourself."

Martin looks at her. "I don't even know where to start."

To the west, the sun is setting, washing the sky in red and orange and touching the grassy hillside with gilt. The color makes her think of wastelands of Oblivion, where everything is tainted with brimstone and fire. How can he give up so easily? Orange is a pretty color but she does not think that anyone would want to see the world bathed in it.

"I'll help," she says. "But you had really best get on it, or else we're all doomed."

"No pressure," Martin says wryly.

* * *

They arrive at Weynon Priory the next day to find the place in chaos—assassins everywhere and Prior Maborel dead. She dispatches the Mythic Dawn agents with ruthless efficiency before they can get a hold of Martin. "Stay here!" she shouts at him. "I'm going to look for Jauffre."

Martin, the stubborn man, does not listen, and follows her into the Weynon Priory chapel. She barely deflects a blow that would have taken off his head. Sidestepping, she brings her sword whirling around and sends the assassin flying backward; Jauffre finishes him off with a neat thrust to the throat. "The Amulet!" he shouts, fending off two more agents. "Secure the Amulet!"

_The Amulet or the heir?_ she wants to snap back, but there is no time because Martin has been backed into a corner. She vaults over a pew and ducks between him and the assassin. Martin—who is wielding a _dagger_, of all things—is breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his face and a ragged gash on his shoulder. "I told you to stay put," she hisses furiously, driving the assassin back.

Martin is still not listening. But at least he casts a restoration spell, and the wound on his shoulder closes up. Jauffre deals the finishing blow to the last of the assassins and turns to face them, scowling.

"The Amulet," he says tersely. And, as an afterthought, "Your Highness."

Then he is off, and they are off after him, and of course the Amulet is gone by the time they reach Jauffre's quarters.


	2. The Amulet

Cloud Ruler Temple is a towering, formidable structure, perched on the top of a mountain and looking out over Tamriel like the prince it protects. She is a Blade now, and can go where she will, so her first day there she ferrets out all the hiding spaces and secret passageways and underground tunnels. She surprises Martin in the library that evening when she appears suddenly from behind a tapestry; he jumps and drops his armload of books.

"Where did you come from?" he demands.

She bends to help him pick up the books. "There's a tunnel straight from the kitchen to the library," she tells him. Interesting—what is Martin doing with _Modern Heretics_? "You should ask Jauffre about it. The passageways could be useful."

"You weren't joking when you said you found things," Martin comments. His fingers brush against hers when she hands him the book, and she does not know why but her stomach flutters. Quickly, she draws herself away to hide the feeling.

"Of course I wasn't joking," she says.

His eyes darken. "So you're a thief and an assassin? Is that true as well?"

She sighs to herself. Martin Septim, the priest, the prince, the upright defender of law and honor—of course he would object. But she can see no point in deceiving him. "Yes."

"Who knows?"

She looks up at him. "Only you." Then, smiling a little, she adds, "Jauffre made me a Blade today."

It succeeds in distracting him. Martin blinks. "What?"

"Aren't you going to congratulate me?" Martin looks adorably flummoxed when teased.

"I—er—congratulations—"

"Thank you," she says cheerfully. "I'm going to the Imperial City tomorrow. Should I bring you back anything? A new pair of boots? Wine? Someone's head on a pike?" This was fun.

"No, I—" Martin stops and looks at her suspiciously. "You're teasing me," he says.

"I wouldn't dream of it. You're a priest."

Martin actually smiles. Jauffre takes the opportunity to walk in on them. He looks from one to the other, and, raising his eyebrows, says, "I hope you've found what you're looking for, Your Highness?"

"Ah—yes, I have."

"Good." Jauffre turns to her. "You'd best get to bed, Blade. You'll need an early start tomorrow."

She bows. "Yes, Grandmaster."

As she leaves the library, she hears Jauffre ask, "So, what were you grinning about, Highness?"

* * *

The _Mysterium Xarxes_—or, as the bookseller so helpfully pointed out, the _Commentary on the Mysterium Xarxes_—is long and rambling, and parts of it seem to be merely the ravings of a madman. When she mentions this to Baurus, he points out, "Yes, but a very skilled, powerful madman who managed to create his own dimension."

She has to admit this does make him rather dangerous, madman or no.

The books are disturbing, with their words of flame and thunder and blood, and when she reads them she can almost feel the thrumming of Oblivion beyond the thinning veils that hold it back. She wonders how much worse the _Mysterium Xarxes_ itself will be. Baurus tells her that he is needed back at Cloud Ruler Temple.

"Safe journeys," she tells him, as she sees him off.

One foot on the stirrup, the other on the ground, Baurus hesitates and looks at her. "What's he like?" he asks. "Martin Septim, I mean."

She is surprised that he would ask. "He is kind. And he cares."

"Would he make a good emperor?"

And then she understands why Baurus asks, and why he is anxious. "He would do anything to see Tamriel safe," she says sincerely. "But he needs help."

Baurus nods with renewed strength and swings onto his horse. "I will not fail him."

_Like I failed his father_.

The unspoken words hang in the air, long after the dust from his passing has settled.

* * *

She wishes that she had said something to Baurus—anything. But words fail her, even now when the moment is long past, and she tosses on her bed and pounds her pillow and tries not the feel the raw swirling power of Oblivion nipping at the heels of reality.

Martin, she thinks, would have known just what to say. Martin is a priest. He can restore anyone's faith—except, apparently, his own.

* * *

_green emperor way where tower touches—_

—_midday sun_

The Mythic Dawn shrine is a cold, chilly, empty place, the caverns echoing with each footstep and the torches casting odd shadows on the walls. The people there are strange. They wear the red robes and hoods of the men who killed the emperor, and the vacant stares that she usually associates with skooma addicts.

_Dawn is breaking._

_Greet the new day._

She gives up her gold and equipment when Harrow asks her to, and follows him through the caverns, her new robes rough and scratchy against her skin. "Where are we going?" she asks, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the hushed atmosphere. Harrow only turns and glares at her.

"Hush," he orders.

She casts her eyes down and bows her head. Harrow seems satisfied with that, because he continues on, and soon they enter a long, high-vaulted chamber where a small crowd is gathered. In the dimness, she can see a figure on a podium.

He speaks with the burning passion of all the fires of Oblivion. She can feel herself swaying at the strength of his words; he speaks as though the very voices of the divines were ringing in his ears.

_When I walk the earth again, the Faithful among you shall receive your reward: to be set above all other mortals forever—_

Mankar Camoran.

—_the weak shall be winnowed; the timid shall be cast down; the mighty shall tremble at my feet and pray for pardon—_

The Amulet. She sees it, all of a sudden, when a stray touch of light catches on the edge of the great red jewel and it glitters in the dimness, like fire, like blood. She leaps forward. But Harrow seizes the back of her robes, and she stumbles—and then, in a flash of fire and a cry of "To Paradise!", Mankar Camoran disappears and the Amulet with him.

"No," she whispers.

But it is too late. He is already gone, and the gate to Paradise has closed.

* * *

The rest is a blur. The next thing she remembers clearly is escaping from the cave into the cool air of evening, blood splattered on her clothes and the _Mysterium Xarxes_ in her hands. She had been so close—_so close—_and once more the Amulet had disappeared—

Misery rises in her throat. She thrusts the book into her saddlebag and gallops all the way back to Cloud Ruler Temple.


	3. The Blade

Oh my gosh, I have reviews! Which means I have readers! Which is quite an amazing thing, so thanks to everyone who's reading this, and especially thanks to everyone who left me a review. I'm pretty much done with this fic, barring some last-minute editing and the ending itself, so I'll be uploading what I have every few days until I'm out of stuff.

* * *

It is cold in the Jerall Mountains, even in spring. Elsewhere larks sing and flowers are bursting forth from the ground, but at Cloud Ruler Temple snow still drifts in through the cracks beneath the doors. She wonders, morosely, what Camoran's Paradise is like. With a name like that, it ought to be warm and sunny the whole year round. A blast of wind rattles the shutters, and she sighs and huddles a little closer to the dying kitchen fire.

The kitchen is empty at this hour of night; most of the Temple denizens are well abed. So she is startled when she hears footsteps on the flagstones—she had not expected anyone to be up.

"Why didn't you tell me when you got back?" asks a voice from the doorway.

Martin. She sighs again. Just the person she'd been hoping to avoid.

"I didn't see any point in waking you," she answers, a trifle bitterly. With the Amulet gone, what's the hurry?

Martin comes and sits down next to her before the flickering heart. Her eyes, fire-blinded, cannot make out his features, but she can hear the sympathy in his voice. "Jauffre told me what happened."

She stares down at her knees and does not answer.

"It was very brave of you to go after the Mythic Dawn like you did," Martin offers.

"I lost the Amulet."

"I know." He shifts, and she knows that he is looking at her. "You still haven't told me your name."

"Apparently, it's Failure."

"You did far more than was asked of you," Martin says gently. His hand on her arm is warm and reassuring. "You put your life at risk to bring back the _Mysterium Xarxes_."

"Martin, _I lost the Amulet_."

He takes her shoulders and turns her until she is facing him. "We'll get it back," he tells her. "The _Mysterium Xarxes_ will allow us to open a portal to Paradise, and then all we have to do is take back the Amulet and bring it to the Imperial City to light the Dragonfires."

It is the kindness in his voice that breaks the wall of misery she has been building up. She leaps to her feet, furious now—furious with his hypocrisy, with his false reassurance, with his unswerving loyalty that forces him to carry out a duty he believes is hopeless—but most of all furious with herself, for nearly believing him.

Martin is an Imperial, after all, and moreover the heir to the throne of Tamriel. Swaying the minds of mere mortals is one of their gifts, isn't it?

"Don't you dare," she snaps at him. "Save your reassurances for your people. Save your sympathy for Baurus, who at least deserves it. But don't waste these words on me—you told me yourself that you think none of this will work!"

She is shocked to feel the sting of tears in her eyes. Before Martin can see—or worse yet, try to offer comfort—she has whirled on her heel and is out the door.

--

Jauffre has her hunting out spies in Bruma, which suits her mood perfectly. It is coldhearted, bloodthirsty work, and she moves from one target to the other with ruthless efficiency, and by midafternoon she is finished. She returns to Cloud Ruler Temple to find Martin and Jauffre in the main hall, discussing something in low voices. They both fall silent when they catch sight of her.

She bows. "Grandmaster."

Jauffre looks at her, at the drawn lines of her face and traces of blood on her blade, and nods. "Good," he says. "You got those bastards." He eyes her with a critical eye. "You'd best get to a healer before those cuts get infected."

"I'll do it," Martin says, starting forward. She jumps away before he can touch her.

"No," she says quickly. "I'm fine."

Jauffre frowns. Martin sighs, and she looks down, guilt stabbing through her. "Do you have further orders for me, Grandmaster?"

"Yes," Jauffre says brusquely. "Stop avoiding Martin."

"I'm _not_—"

But there is no point in lying. She shuts her mouth firmly and bows again. "I will not disturb you further, Grandmaster. Your Highness."

--

"So I hear you've been sulking."

"I do not sulk," she retorts, concentrating on combing out her horse's mane. "I'm thinking."

"You've practically got a dark cloud floating over your head." Baurus comes around the stall door and leans against it, watching her. "Any more thinking and you'll be standing in a tiny downpour all your own."

She does not dignify this with a response.

"Come on," Baurus says, after a moment. "Leave that poor horse alone, he's been brushed to death. I haven't thanked you properly yet for saving my life back there with the Mythic Dawn. Let me teach you a few new moves."

--

An hour of sparring later, she is exhausted enough in mind and body to finally sit down and let the Temple healer cast a few restoration spells. When she sees Baurus at dinner later, she is satisfied to see him nursing a sore shoulder, injured when she cut through his guard and whacked him with the flat of her blade.

"You learn quick," he says ruefully.

"Thank you." She sits down next to him and grabs a piece of bread. Around them, the long benches of the dining hall are filling up with men and women from the Temple, though she notes with relief that Martin is not amongst them. "You're a good teacher."

"Thanks. Pass the ale."

She is rather enjoying her dinner when Baurus says, out of the blue, "I know how you feel."

She blinks. A forkful of mutton is half-way to her lips. "What?"

"I know how you feel," Baurus says again. He is staring intensely at his plate. "I was there when my Emperor died, and I couldn't protect him."

She puts down the fork, her appetite gone. "Did Jauffre put you up to this?"

"No," he says shortly. "He didn't. You just looked the way I felt right after. And let me tell you, it's not your fault, all right? You did the best you could."

"Do you believe that?" she demands.

"I'm learning to." Baurus turns to face her. "Martin needs you. To cheer him up, if nothing else—you know Jauffre tells me he hardly ever smiles when you're not around? You can't give up now."

"I lost the Amulet," she says, voice so low that Baurus has to lean in to hear her over the hum of the crowd. "I lost the Amulet _twice_. What if—what if I try to help, and I do everything wrong and end up getting Martin killed?" The thought makes something twist unpleasantly in her stomach.

"Look, I know what they say: the Emperor should only fall when every Blade in Tamriel lies dead." Baurus flashes her a quick smile. "So, better not to try, because that's a heavy responsibility—but if you don't try, he's dead for certain."

"No pressure," she says wryly, echoing Martin's words.


	4. A Storm

I have to admit, I am deeply, deeply conflicted about the ending. I've written it. But now I'm considering doing an alternate ending. But I'm not even sure how that's going to work.

Anyway. This chapter takes place just after the Blood of a Daedra quest. Again, thanks to everyone for reading.

* * *

She spends the next two weeks scouring what feels like all of Cyrodiil, closing Oblivion gates and visiting Daedric shrines. When she returns to Cloud Ruler Temple at last, it is with an unusual lightheartedness that she has not felt since the Amulet slipped from her grasp—and a touch of smug satisfaction.

It is late. Martin is not in the main hall, though all his books and papers are there, spread across three tables; remembering what he told her the last time she arrived at such an hour, she smothers a grin and creeps around the back of the Temple to the living quarters. It is the work of a moment to slip past the guards and pick the lock on his door. Martin is facing away from her, bent over his desk—some last minute research, no doubt. She clears her throat loudly.

He leaps up and whirls around, and she is pleased to see that a dagger is in his hands. "Hello," she says.

"How did you get in?" he demands. Then, "Where have you _been_?"

She finds herself grinning despite herself. "Did you miss me?"

He puts down the dagger. In three quick strides he is across the room, and his hands are on her shoulders, pulling her up, and then she finds herself being crushed in a fierce hug. "I hoped you would come back," he says, holding her back at arm's length, his worried gaze on her face. "I thought—well. Have you forgiven me yet?"

"I came to apologize to you," she tells him. "I shouldn't have been so angry, when you were only trying to help—but," she adds hastily, because Martin looks as though he is about to speak, "I knew it wouldn't be that easy to earn your forgiveness. So I brought you a present."

Martin frowns, momentarily diverted. "A present? What—"

"Actually, three presents. But you only get to pick one."

"They're not stolen, are they?"

He looks so worried that she has to laugh. "No," she says. "They were rightfully earned and freely given. Do you want them or not?"

"I suppose so," Martin says, releasing her. Then, as she turns to dig through her pack, he asks, "How did you get in, anyway?"

"Sneaked past the guards and picked your lock," she says absently. "Get Jauffre to double the patrols in the north corridor, and put a sentry under your window. And for the love of the gods, change your locks—any street thief could have gotten in."

"You climbed in through the window?"

"No," she says patiently. "I sneaked past the guards in the north corridor. Here." She turns back to him, and places three packages in his arms. "Pick one."

He unwraps the first and holds it up against the light, blinking as though he cannot believe his eyes. "Azura's Star," he says slowly. "How did you get this?"

"I had to kill five vampires."

"How—" He shakes his head. "Never mind. But—"

"The other two," she reminds him.

Reverently, he sets the Star down on his bedside table. The second package is much smaller. "The Ring of Khajiti."

She grimaces. "An entire nest of necromancers."

The third package is the largest of the three. Martin's eyes widen in shock as he looks at it. "The Sanguine Rose," he says.

"Oh, that one was funny. See, Sanguine thought Countess Caro was too stuffy, so he had me cast Stark Reality on her at a dinner party, and—"

"Enough!" Laughing, Martin holds up his hand. "I can well imagine the consequences."

"You don't want to hear about Countess Caro?" She is a little disappointed. "That was the most interesting quest of all the three—"

Martin looks amused. "I am sure she is a lovely woman, but Countess Caro is someone else's wife. I don't believe the Count of Leyawin would appreciate me imagining his wife naked."

"Don't worry," she tells him cheerfully. "Everyone else in Cyrodiil already has."

"Ah. Well, I suppose that makes it all right, then." Her insides do a strange little flip when Martin smiles at her. "How did you know I needed a Daedric artifact?"

"I overheard you and Jauffre talking about it."

"Of course." He looks down at the staff in his hands. "Did you know—I never thought to see this again. I once possessed it, briefly…a lifetime ago, it seems now. To obtain it, and then give it up—I honor your dedication to our cause. I think…I think I will use this in the ritual. The world can do without the Sanguine Rose causing trouble."

"All right." She shifts a little, restlessly. "I'm sorry," she bursts out suddenly. "For losing the Amulet, and disappointing you—and then Baurus told me that you still needed my help, but I don't know if you do, and I've already failed you once—"

Martin touches her cheek. "So you thought you'd overcompensate by getting three Daedric artifacts instead of just one." His voice is kind.

"Well, yes," she admits. "But I'll understand if you want to send me away—"

"No." Martin is all seriousness now. "Don't go. I was wrong, you know. The Nine did send help—they sent you. You had the courage to save Kvatch and the selflessness to offer up the Sanguine Rose. I need you. Tamriel needs you."

"Oh."

"Promise me something."

_Anything_, she wants to say, but manages to bite her tongue before the word escapes. "Yes?"

"Don't take off again without letting me know."

She cannot resist teasing him. "So you did miss me, then."

Again that smile of his; again that odd flip of her insides. "Yes," Martin says. "Yes, I did."

--

Baurus grins at her the next time she sees him, on patrol through the Great Hall; Jauffre gives her a searching look when he comes to fetch her to close Bruma's oblivion gate. But neither of them say a word.

She is a little ashamed to discover that she is relieved. But still, she had not looked forward to a lecture on duty and faith and loyalty from either of them.

--

Martin shows her the _Mysterium Xarxes_ later, and the small bits that he has managed to decipher. They pore over books together. Martin is surprised when he learns that she has trained a bit as a mage. "Is there anything else I should know about you?" he asks, jokingly. "Are you a priest as well? A Champion of the Imperial Arena? Princess of a foreign country?"

She smiles. "I brew an excellent Fatigue poison," she offers.

"An alchemist. I should have known."

She likes the way his eyes crinkle up at the corners when he smiles.


	5. The Rush of Plagued Rain

Martin seeks her out a few days later, a worried look on his face and the _Mysterium Xarxes_ in his hands. It is the first warm day of spring in the Jerall Mountains, so she is standing on the ramparts enjoying the view. "What do you need?" she asks, turning away from the glorious vista of craggy mountain and budding trees. "Did you get any further in the translation?"

"Yes, I—" Martin hesitates. "I hate to ask this of you—"

"Out with it, Martin."

"Very well." He sighs. "I need the blood of a god. One of the Nine Divines. This gave me quite a bit of trouble until I remembered Tiber Septim, who became Talos—and he has a set of armor hidden away in Sancre Tor."

"You want me to fetch the armor for you?" She cocks her head at him. "That sounds simple enough. Why do you look so worried?"

"Jauffre has the details," Martin says. "But he mentioned something about a curse and an undead gatekeeper." He runs his free hand through his hair. "I'm reluctant to send you into danger, but you are the best I can think of for this task—"

"I'm helping you get the Amulet back," she tells him. "If you say you need the armor, I believe you. Where is Sancre Tor?"

--

The final resting place of Tiber Septim's armor is not a pleasant place. There are ghosts and wraiths haunting every hallway, and the curse hangs over the tomb like a heavy veil. She fights her way through the undead horrors to reach—

—even more undead horrors, four of them, by the names of Rielus, Casnar, Valdemar, Alain. She looks at the ghosts of the former Blades and see, even in death, the way their failure hangs heavy on their shoulders. She thinks of Martin, and of what Baurus said— _the Emperor should only fall when every Blade in Tamriel lies dead._

She is glad that Martin is safe at Cloud Ruler Temple.

The armor itself is nothing special to look at. It is old and brittle, and she lifts it carefully from the pedestal and places it in her pack. In the dimness of the tomb she can make out streaks of dark red on the pitted surface of the metal; Tiber Septim's blood, she supposes. Although she does wonder at it being there—the Blades are scrupulous about keeping their equipment clean, and she is sure the Emperor would be no exception.

The undead Blades bow as she walks past with Tiber Septim's armor, and one by one, they turn and fade away.

--

Jauffre handles the armor with a reverence that he usually reserves only for Martin. "I never thought to see this," he says quietly, taking it from her hands. "You have done a great service for the Blades today. I only hope that Martin will not destroy the armor in the casting of his ritual."

"He only needs the blood," she reassures him. "Where is Martin?"

Another of Jauffre's searching looks. "He's coming. I'm sure he'll want to inspect the armor himself."

"Ah." She is suddenly shy. "Perhaps I'll just speak to him later, then, when the two of you aren't as busy—"

Jauffre snorts. "Bashfulness doesn't suit you," he advises. "Moon over Martin if you must, but keep in mind that he'll be Emperor someday."

"I do not _moon_—" she begins indignantly.

Hurried footsteps. The door to Jauffre's office opens, and Martin skids in, robes askew and dark hair disheveled. "I came as quickly as I could," he says, by way of explanation. "I was in the sparring ring. The armor!" His eyes light up as he spots it, and he approaches it nearly as rapturously as Jauffre had. "And the blood of Talos," he adds quietly, fingering one long, red-streaked stain.

"Hello, Martin," she says wryly.

He glances at her and smiles. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to neglect you. Was it difficult getting the armor?"

"Yes," she says, and leaves it at that. Jauffre snorts.

"I'm sure the temple archivist would like to know the details of the curse," he says pointedly.

She looks at Martin, who is engrossed in the armor. "You're probably right," she says, disappointment washing over her. Quietly, she lets herself out of the room.

--

She does not understand Jauffre. Two days later he seeks her out in the library, and throws himself into the seat next to hers. "By the Nine Divines, woman!" he snaps. "I didn't mean for you to _ignore_ the boy. Even he's realized something's wrong."

She stares at him. "I thought you didn't want me near him," she says. "You told me—"

Jauffre snorts. "To go to the temple archivist, yes, yes. Not to hide in the library forever. How long were you planning to avoid him? Until he sends you on your next mission?"

That had been the plan, yes, but of course she cannot say that out loud so she says nothing.

"Don't be a fool," Jauffre says, apparently reading her thoughts. "He needs you more than he knows. When you're not around the boy forgets to eat."

"I'm trying to remember that he'll be Emperor someday," she retorts.

Now it is Jauffre's turn to stare at her. "I didn't mean it like that," he says finally, his voice gruff. "You are a Blade, and therefore one of my own. I wasn't warning you away. Just didn't want you to be hurt, that's all, if Martin decides to remember his bloodlines."

She picks at a stray thread on the sleeve of her shirt and cannot think of anything to say. Jauffre huffs impatiently and rises to his feet. "Never had any kids of my own," he tells her. "Couldn't see the point, when I had to train twenty raw recruits at a time. But don't think I don't know what's going on, even if I've never had a daughter. Think about what I've said."

"Grandmaster," she says simply, and bows a little, from the waist. His footsteps fade as he walks away, leaving her with her thoughts.

--

"Your Highness."

Martin does not look up from his desk. "Yes?" he asks absently.

The guard clears his throat. "A visitor here to see you, sir."

Only now does he look up. His brow furrows when he sees her. "Hello," he says. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing," she says hastily. "I just—" She glances at the guard.

Martin takes the hint. "You may resume your duties," he tells him.

The guard hesitates, clearly wavering. "Sir, I'm ordered to protect you while you have visitors—"

"I am a _Blade_," she snaps, temper straining. "Do you not trust one of your own? Or do you not trust the Grandmaster to choose correctly?"

The guard turns red, bows, and dashes off. Martin is looking at her curiously. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," she says shortly, stepping into the room. "Never been better."

"No," Martin says. "You're not fine." He rises and closes the door behind her, concern in his eyes. "If you were fine," he tells her, "you would come in through the window, or cast invisibility and sneak past the guards. You would offer to assassinate someone for me—or—or make any number of outrageous propositions. You wouldn't come in here tamely with a guard and then snap his head off."

"I—" She stops. Martin Septim has never given any sign that he cares about bloodlines, and she has never been shy, but now she finds herself miserably tongue-tied, and she does not know why. "Jauffre told me to remember that you'll be Emperor someday."

"Is that why you wouldn't speak to me yesterday?" Martin asks curiously.

She clasps her hands behind her back and looks up at him. "I was practicing," she tells him solemnly. "I pretended that you were in boring meetings all day."

Martin laughs.

"Also, I had to close an Oblivion gate." She holds out the glowing Sigil Stone for his inspection. "See?"

He leans in to inspect it. "Actually," he says. "May I borrow this? The _Mysterium Xarxes_ makes mention of these—"

"Sure. Do you need more? There are plenty of gates still open."

"No, this is fine," Martin says hastily, taking the stone from her. "Don't trouble yourself. What else did Jauffre say?"

"To beware of you remembering your bloodlines."

He looks puzzled. "What?"

"That you're a Septim," she explains.

A pause. Then, "_Oh_," Martin says. She stares in fascination. Martin is _blushing_. "Ah. I see. Well—rest assured that you shall not have to stand on any ceremony, even if I am crowned Emperor. Your friendship and—ah—loyalty—speak for themselves."

"He also said you needed me for something?" Another item for the ritual, no doubt—something hidden somewhere dark and dangerous and infested with undead.

"Ah," Martin says. "I keep telling him we don't need to send you. Any of the Blades would be fit for such a task. And you've don't so much for us already—"

_I don't do it for Jauffre or for the Blades or even for all of Tamriel_, she wants to say. _I do it for you. Because I'm sorry I lost the Amulet. Because I want to see you smile_.

"Jauffre was right," she murmurs to herself.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," she says out loud. "What do you need?"


	6. All the Tinder of Anu

She has been to Miscarcand before, but had not been able to make it all the way through the dungeon. A goblin warrior had caught her by surprise from behind; she still has the long, curling scar on her back as a memento. So she knows that there are skeletons there, and zombies, and plenty of goblins who would be more than happy to give her scar a twin.

It takes her three nights to make her way through the twisting labyrinth of the Ayleid ruins, harried at every turn by goblin warriors and then hordes of undead. The Great Welkynd Stone itself is relatively unguarded, which surprises her. The echoing emptiness of the central chamber where it is being held is unsettling.

So it is almost with a feeling of relief that she lifts the Great Welkynd Stone off its pedestal and turns around to find a lich king advancing on her. She had been afraid there would be something worse.

_Not that a lich king isn't bad enough_, she amends, leaping out of the way of a fireball. She draws her blade. Whirling forward, she brings it slamming down on his staff and cracks it in two. The undead King of Miscarcand howls in fury.

The torches of blue fire on the walls flicker and go out. In the darkness, she leaps blindly for the sound of his voice and casts Night-Eye.

The King is flourishing his weapon—a Daedric shortsword. The King is quite good with his weapon, even in the darkness, even without his spells. She dances away from him. A blow catches her on the shoulder, tearing through her thin leather armor, and her whole arm goes numb with the pain. Her shield clatters to the ground.

She swings, wildly, and the King backs away. In the eerie shades of cerulean that Night-Eye paints the world in, her shoulder is dripping dark blue. She curses. And she wonders what it is about Martin that makes her willing to do these things—to go out and _volunteer_ to do these things.

It is only when the King of Miscarcand lies dead at her feet that she realizes the answer, and despite the pain in every inch of her body she laughs. She does these things because she is a Blade and Martin is her Emperor. But the volunteering—

That is her own folly entirely.

--

It is another three days back to Cloud Ruler Temple, traveling slowly and staying at inns. She has a healer look her over and mend the cuts and bruises she cannot see to herself, but even the healer clucks over the wound in her shoulder and informs her that it will leave a scar. She does not mind, not really. When she examines herself in the mirror she secretly thinks it makes her look dangerous and a trifle dashing.

She arrives at Cloud Ruler Temple in the morning and leaves her horse in the stables. Martin is in the Great Hall, bent over his research—he has commandeered yet _another_ table—but his eyes light up when he sees her and her stomach does that odd flutter again.

Then his gaze falls to her shoulder and the great ragged tear in her armor, and his face clouds over. "Was there any trouble?" he asks.

She raises her eyebrows. "There's always trouble," she says mildly.

"You were gone for a week." Martin sets down his book and rises to his feet. "Let me see your shoulder. Are you all right?"

She's perfectly fine, but there is no use in gainsaying Martin, so she peels away her armor and lets him look at her shoulder. "Whoever stitched this up did a sorry job of it," he says, frowning.

"Sorry. I couldn't see it very well in the dark."

He puts his hand over her scar and she feels cool energy trickling into her skin. "You should have taken more healing potions," he chides.

"Mmm." She can feel the last of her bruises fading away. "Do you want to see it?"

"You have the Great Welkynd Stone?"

She looks up at him. "I wouldn't dare to return to you without it," she tells him, grinning. "You would have tried to go after it yourself, and then where would you be?"

"In Miscarcand," Martin says dryly. "Probably dead. May I see it?"

She digs it out of her pack. The blue glow of the stone fills the Great Hall with its eerie light. Martin cradles it, reverently, between his hands. "It's beautiful," he says at last. "It'll be a pity to destroy it. I believe it's the last of its kind, you know."

"The Mages Guild is working on making more."

Martin flashes her a quick smile. "It took the Ayleids hundred of years to discover the magic, and now their methods are lost. I wish the mages luck, but I, for one, do not expect to be around when another Great Welkynd Stone is created."

"But thank you," he adds. "Your help has been—invaluable."

She looks at him curiously. Martin looks as though he wants to say more.

For a moment he seems to waver. Then he draws himself up, and away, and says, "You should go rest. I am nearly done translating the _Mysterium Xarxes_."

--

Baurus sits next to her at dinner that night. "I heard about the King of Miscarcand," he says. "Good job with that one. Why didn't you tell Martin about it?"

"How did _you_ hear about it?" she demands.

"Jauffre."

She should have known. Isn't the Grandmaster of the Order of the Blades supposed to be discreet? "Does _everyone_ know?"

"About you being a hero?" Baurus is grinning. "Or about you mooning—"

"I do not _moon_—"

"Because," Baurus interrupts, "the answer is yes. Yes, everyone _does _know."

She fixes him with a glare. "You are the younger brother I'm glad I never had," she informs him.

Baurus laughs. And then, when dinner is over and they are walking out the hall together, he surprises her by clapping her on the shoulder and saying quietly, "It's good to see that you've forgiven yourself."

And she is even more surprised to discover that it is true.

--

When Martin comes to tell her of his latest plan, her first thought is: "The Countess of Bruma is going to be furious."

"I know," he says wryly. "I don't fancy having to tell her about it. But Jauffre insists I be the one to do it, the blackguard."

She laughs. "It's a lesson in becoming Emperor." She turns and peers over the ramparts. She can see Bruma from here, a long, long way down the mountain. The houses are the size of toys. "You'll have to learn how to wheedle your way into her good graces."

"Not all the good graces in the world are going to convince her."

"You're Martin Septim," she says, a teasing note creeping into her voice. "Couldn't you just use Voice of the Emperor on her? It's certainly got what you wanted out of me."

There is silence. A little perplexed, she turns and glances at Martin, who is frowning down at the city below them. "Is that why you do it?" he asks, not looking at her. "Is that why you've crisscrossed Cyrodiil risking your life? Because I ordered you to?"

"No," she says, confused now. "You never ordered me to do anything. I offered, remember?"

"Yes, but—" Martin rakes his hand through his hair. It is odd to see the calm demeanor of Priest and Emperor cracking open, and the agitation beneath. "This plan," he says, "requires someone to go through the Great Gate and fetch the Sigil Stone. Are you offering to do this as well?"

"I do think I'm most suited, so yes." She adds, before he can object, "I know you're not using Voice of the Emperor on me. It's all right. This offer was made of my own free will."

He is staring at her. "Why?" he asks. "I don't understand. I never expected such fearless enthusiasm, even to save Tamriel."

He doesn't know? "But Jauffre knows," she says, surprised. "And Baurus, and probably half the Blades here suspect. And I only just found out a week ago, but I thought that Jauffre at least would have told you."

"Told me what?" Martin looks completely confused.

She cannot help but laugh. All this time, and he still doesn't know? And she had thought _she _was the last one to discover it. "I would have thought you were cleverer than that," she tells him, vastly amused. "I can't believe that you still don't know."

"Know _what_?"

She contemplates letting him work it out for himself, or at least drag it out of that meddling Grandmaster, but in the end she gives in to pity.

"That I love you, of course."

Martin, she is gratified to see, looks suitably stunned.

* * *

A/N: Heh. Look at that. I was almost tempted to stop here but then **I** gave in to pity and decided to post two chapters instead of one; it seemed a bit cruel to just leave things hanging like that. Not that the next chapter is much better, mind.

Anyway. Onwards!


	7. The Eyes of Padhome

That afternoon, she has the rare pleasure of watching the Countess of Bruma stalk up and down her hall in a temper as Martin tries to explain to her how, exactly, he plans to destroy her city.

"—I cannot guarantee that it will be safe, my lady," he is saying, as the Countess strides past furiously. "But the Blades will join you in the defense of your city, and support from the other cities is coming—"

"And there is no other way?" the Countess demands. She stops right in front of Martin. "Why can't you do this in front of that fort of yours?"

"Countess, it is not a large enough place to draw the attention of a Great Gate—"

The Countess resumes her furious pacing. "Some other place, then," she snaps. "What of the Imperial City? They have the Legion to guard it. Unlike Bruma."

Martin shakes his head. "We cannot risk losing the Imperial City, my lady."

"So Bruma is to be the sacrifice," the Countess says coldly. Suddenly all the anger seems to drain from her, and she bows her head wearily. "Very well, then. You are my Emperor, and if you say this must be done, then I will obey."

"Countess, I—"

"No." She holds up her hand. "Go. Do what you must. We will speak afterward."

Martin bows. The Countess follows him out of the hall, and she goes too, as well as Martin's honor guard of Blades. The crowds line the streets of Bruma and cheer as they pass. She does not watch them. She watches Martin, and the way his shoulders tense underneath the armor, and the grim way he smiles when he waves to his people.

He pulls her aside after his rousing speech to the soldiers. They have not had a chance to speak since their strange abortive conversation on the ramparts of Cloud Ruler Temple that morning; now, here, with Oblivion gates about to open and spew forth Daedra at any moment, he wants to finish it? "Do we have time for this?" she asks, drawing out her sword.

"Barely," Martin says. His eyes are dark and intense. "When the Great Gate opens, you will have to move quickly, or else Bruma is lost." He glances at the soldiers, and then at the city walls. "You'll have a few hours, no more."

"I've closed Oblivion gates before, Martin."

"Yes, but—" He shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be lecturing you. Be careful. I—"

A shout, and a blast of flame. The first gate is open.

--

The acrid stench of Oblivion is stronger in this plane than in any other she'd been to before. The heat, too, is worse; it hits her like a wave, and in moments she is sweaty and disheveled. Fortunately, she does not plan on being here long.

The great war-gates before her are opening. She can see a siege crawler slowly coming toward her, and beyond that, the bright yellow glow of a sigil tower. The chameleon spells that her mage's training gave her are invaluable now, letting her rush by the Daedra gate-guards without being seen. The spells do not protect her, however, from the fire-towers. She dodges three fireballs but is unlucky on the fourth; it hits her square in the chest and she is thrown to the ground.

The fire-tower is already starting to hum again by the time she picks herself up, bruised and sore and cursing. She gives it an irritated whack with her sword as she runs past, and in retaliation it spews another fireball and she only nearly manages to roll out of the way.

There are six towers lining the road to the sigil tower, three on each side, and the siege crawler is already at the first set. She hurries her pace. Martin's voice echoes through her mind: _You'll have a few hours, no more_. She snorts. From the way that thing is crawling, she's lucky if she even has another hour. She had no idea that something so bulky could move so quickly.

The path to the sigil tower is blocked by two sets of war gates. She glances at the towers to either side. One of them must have the mechanism to unlock the war gates. But which?

Trusting to her luck, she picks the nearest one.

It is hot under the red-orange sky of Oblivion but ice-cold in the towers, and she shivers at the sudden drop in temperature. The sweat on her skin cools quickly. This is a control tower, all right; she has seen plenty of these in her other runs through Oblivion. Quickly she dashes up the spiral ramp to the top and activates the controls; soon there is a loud, ominous creaking indicating that a war-gate has opened. Daedra are shouting, down below. She had hoped she could sneak past them; now, with such a warning as an enormous gate cracking open to reveal the presence of an intruder, there will be little chance of that.

She dispatches the guards in the sigil tower with the ruthless efficiency that has made her a Silencer for the Dark Brotherhood, but she is tiring now; the heat and the cold and the smell of brimstone have taken their toll. There are streaks of blood and dirt on her armor and her sword is heavy in her hands. Sighing, she puts it away. A blade will be of no use if she does not have the energy to wield it. Instead she casts her chameleon spell again and hopes that it will keep the guards at bay.

The tower is foreign to her but it does not matter; up is the only way she can go. All she has to do is grab the Great Sigil Stone—

But of course things would not be so simple. A daedroth spots her and gives a great roar; she dashes away as quickly as she can but it follows on her tail. An unlucky stumble gives the daedroth the opening it needs, and she feels a flash of pain on her back as it rakes its claws through her armor. She picks herself up and runs.

The Sigil Stone. She has to get to the top of the tower.

She is in the Sigillum Sanguis, now, leaping up the curving ramps with the daedroth following, and there is the Stone right before her on its pedestal—like any other sigil stone, but larger and darker, and it shocks her with its power when she reaches up and grabs it. Around her, she can feel the world starting to crumble.

But that daedroth, that damned stubborn daedroth, does not give up even in the face of certain defeat, and it leaps at her and clouts her on the side of her head as the world shatters to pieces around them.

--

White light and pain.

Things come to her in jagged bits and pieces. The throbbing in her head is the first thing she notices; the shouting the next. There is an ominous creaking above her and she looks up to see the siege crawler, half-way through the closing Oblivion gate; the next thing she knows, the gate disappears in a flash of fire and the siege crawler is breaking into pieces about her. A chunk of metal hits her on the shoulder and she winces, diving out of the way.

With the Great Gate gone, the other gates are closing, and the remains of the daedra army are streaming back to Oblivion before they are shut out forever. She pulls herself to her feet—although in retrospect, perhaps she shouldn't have, because the retreating daedra army threatens to trample her as they rush past. A Kynreeve takes a half-hearted swing at her with his sword. She does not entirely manage to move out of the way, and the blade clips her on the ribs and slides off her armor.

Then the daedra are gone, all of them, and the gates are closed and she is staring across the battlefield at the cheering human soldiers.

And Martin is running toward her, his gold-and-ebony armor glinting in the afternoon light. The world is swaying strangely. She grabs hold of the broken siege crawler for support.

"Martin," she says, as he draws closer. "Martin, I have the Sigil Stone—"

"To Oblivion with the Stone," he says fiercely. He pulls her to him, roughly, and for a moment there is something dark and unreadable in his eyes.

And then he leans down and kisses her, right there on the smoking battlefield.

She is surprised enough to let go of the siege crawler. The hard plates of his armor are pressing into her chest; there is mingled relief and desperation in the way his hands are cupped around her waist. Martin Septim tastes like dust and sweat and battle. But she does not care; she had not known that she had wanted this until it is finally happening, and his kiss is making her head spin and for this lovely, shocking, all-too-brief moment she is giddy with happiness.

They break apart at the sound of whistles and catcalls. Most of the Bruma guard, a good two-dozen Blades, and soldiers from the rest of Cyrodiil are watching them with fascinated interest. "We're not looking!" someone shouts. "Don't mind us!"

It is then that she realizes that the kissing is not the only reason why her head is spinning.

"Martin?"

"Yes?"

"I'm going to faint."

And she does.

* * *

A/N: Whoa! Kissing! Finally! :) Although I bet all of you could see this coming. Only three more chapters to go, so the end is in sight. As always , reviews are much appreciated.


	8. Paradise

A/N: Um um um. :points at rating: I don't know if anyone even cares about that sort of thing, but just in case anyone does...

Also, a quick explanation: in case anyone hasn't fully played through the Dark Brotherhood storyline yet, you get an assassination job where you are invited to a 'party' at Summermist Manor and have to kill everyone in the house.

* * *

She dreams: of Mehrunes Dagon and his four arms and his four keys; of Mankar Camoran and his Paradise; of a great golden dragon and the end of the world.

She dreams of Akatosh and Talos.

She dreams of Martin, being devoured by flame and glory, and she wakes with a gasp and a sob into the night. Instantly hands are at her shoulders, pushing her down; she struggles, and a voice says, "Don't move; you're safe. Lie down."

She quiets. The candlelight is strangely blurred. It takes her a moment to realize that she is crying.

"What were you dreaming about?" Martin is leaning over her, looking worried. She looks past him. They are in the small hospice at Cloud Ruler Temple; candles line the walls and the honey-sweet scent of healing potions fills the air.

"Nothing," she says aloud. It was only a dream, after all. Gingerly, she touches the side of her head where the daedroth struck her and winces at the soreness. "What happened?"

"You collapsed," Martin tells her, sitting back in his chair. "We healed you as best we could and brought you back to Cloud Ruler Temple."

She looks around curiously. The hospice is empty except for them. "Where are the other Blades?" She couldn't have been the only one injured.

"Back in Bruma. We needed you here to—" Martin stops. He looks, suddenly, very weary, as though he has spent too many nights with little sleep and too much guilt; she supposes such is the lot of an Emperor.

"—to go to Camoran's Paradise and fetch the Amulet," she finishes for him, because apparently he cannot.

She watches as his shoulders tense. "Yes. That."

"The Sigil Stone—"

"Upstairs. We have it." Briefly, he touches her hand. "You did well," Martin tells her.

Surreptitiously—or as surreptitiously as she can, what with Martin looking straight at her—she lifts up the blankets and checks over her body. She is clean, which is quite a wonder, and nothing hurts, which is another. Her head is still sore and her back itches with the tingle of new-grown skin, but otherwise she is fine.

"Damned daedroth," she mutters.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing." She sits up. "What time is it? Is the portal ready?"

"Well past midnight," Martin says. He reaches out, tips her face toward him, and peers at her eyes, and he frowns a little. "I'll open the portal for you in the morning," he informs her.

She blinks up at him, amazed. "What? I thought the fate of the world depended on this."

Martin releases her. "Yes," he says, "but it also depends on you, and you cannot go in unprepared."

"I'm perfectly prepared," she protests. "I feel fine."

"You're not going until morning," Martin says in what he probably imagines to be a firm and commanding voice, but which, to her, sounds simply stubborn.

"What not?" she demands.

"Because you need to rest."

"You're being ridiculous," she tells him. "I can rest when Lord Dagon is taken care of—or else I can rest when we are all dead at his hands. But," she adds, because Martin looks like he's about to argue, "you are my Emperor, of course, so I shall do as you say, even if it means certain death and the destruction of all of Tamriel—"

"_Stop_." There is that anger again, and the weariness, and Martin puts his hand over his face and sighs as though his heart is breaking. "Do you think I want to see Tamriel destroyed?" he asks. "Do you think I want Lord Dagon on the throne?"

"Martin—"

"Let me assure you: I do not."

She swallows. "I'm sorry," she whispers. She should not have said such things. Martin is burdened enough as it is, and in the end it is his decision, after all—no matter what she might think of it, no matter how little she understands his reasoning.

It is not in Martin to be bitter or to be cruel; he is a priest, after all, so he lowers his hand and looks at her and says, "You told me that you loved me. Did it never occur to you that I might care for you as well?"

In all honesty, it hadn't—he is her Emperor and she has never had much experience with romance—but clearly this is not the answer Martin is looking for, so she looks down at her hands and keeps her mouth shut. Unfortunately, her thoughts must have been written across her forehead, because Martin sighs again and says, tiredly, "Well, I do. So you'll forgive me if I'm reluctant to send you into danger again quite so soon."

She shouldn't be surprised but is. There is that flutter again, low in her stomach; she asks, "Are you going to kiss me again?"

"It wouldn't be proper."

"Oh." She looks down at her hands again. "It's just that—well—earlier, when you did, I didn't remember much because I fainted—"

But she does not get a chance to finish, because Martin tilts her face up and kisses her.

This time there is no cheering crowd of soldiers when they break apart, only candlelight and shadows, and she wonders at her sudden shyness because, after all, shouldn't she be _less_ shy now that there isn't anyone watching? "I thought you said it wouldn't be proper," she whispers.

"It isn't," Martin says. His hand is on her cheek, and he attempts a smile. "I'm afraid you bring it out in me." His face is inches from hers. She could kiss him again, if she wanted to, and he would probably let her; there is an intensity in the way he looks at her that makes her think he might not mind.

So she does. And Martin does not push her away.

--

She likes the way Martin looks at her, and the way his voice goes ragged—just a little—as he says, "I should go."

But she knows that he won't, and Martin does too, possibly because—somehow—he is sitting next to her on the bed and her shirt is half undone. She touches his shoulder, trails her fingers down his chest and watches as his breathing goes uneven and his hand clenches around hers. "I thought you were a priest," she teases.

Martin laughs. And he describes to her—a little breathlessly, because he is kissing her and taking off her shirt and she is arching shamelessly against him—how he was once a follower of Sanguine, and the revels they held in his name on moonless nights. "You might be surprised," he tells her, his hands around her waist and the weight of his body against hers, "but I was quite the rascal, once."

She is not surprised. Martin is passionate in his own quiet, stubborn way, and in any case how can she doubt him when his touch sends her blood tingling and dancing in her veins? So she closes her eyes and smiles, and in the darkness there is nothing but the feel of skin against skin and the thumping of his heart as she puts her hands against his chest; desire is winding its way through her body, warm and languid and heady, and the sound of Martin's voice in her ear makes her shiver when he asks, slightly hoarse, "Have you ever—?"

She remembers, distantly, a spoiled young noble in Summermist manor and the way she slits his throat as he leans in to kiss her. But Martin would not appreciate such details. "No."

"Then are you certain—"

She hooks a leg around his bare waist, and whoever did her healing must have been quite good indeed, because there is not a twinge of soreness as she twists, deftly, and Martin lands on his back with a small thud. "Yes," she tells him, leaning down to look at him. Martin is strong, for a scholar, but he is not stronger than she; in any case he isn't putting up much of a fight. "Why wouldn't I be?" she asks, and Martin laughs and reaches for her and they kiss there, in the wavering candlelight.

There is a flicker of power behind his eyes, and the candles wink out, one by one, until they are left in darkness, together, in a truer paradise than any Mankar Camoran could ever dream of.

--

Jauffre, who has never been a morning person anyway, does not find his mood improved by the sight that greets him when he peers into the hospice.

"By the Nine Divines," he swears, slamming the door behind him as he steps back out into the hallway. He glares at Baurus. "I'm too old for this," he snaps. "_You_ go get them. And wipe that grin off your face before they see you."

* * *

A/N: Hah! I bet you thought she was going to Mankar Camoran's Paradise, huh? Well, so did she. :) But this was better. Sorry if people don't like the shameless fluff, but I thought the characters deserved a bit of an interlude before, you know, other stuff happens.

Anyway, thanks to all my readers and reviewers (and special thanks to DappyCat, who has posted a review for _every single chapter_ of this story)! I loved hearing all your comments. Two more chapters to go!


	9. False Heaven

It is only after she steps through the gate to Camoran's Paradise that she realizes that Martin had his way after all: it is morning. It is morning here, too, in this strange, deadly place; the sun is barely over the edge of the horizon and the birds are only just beginning to wake. There is a narrow path of white stone stretching out through the dewy grass and into the distance, lined with flowers on either side. She wonders how someone like Mankar Camoran could dream up something this lovely. Doesn't Camoran serve Mehrunes Dagon? And is Dagon not the Daedric lord of fire and destruction?

But soon she realizes the Paradise is not entirely peaceful. There are monsters lurking in every corner—spider daedra and dremora and atronachs. And there are people too: Ascended Immortals, they call themselves, looking so bitter and forlorn she almost pities them; they are here to fight and die and be reborn again until the end of the world. Some, she thinks she remembers from the shrine of the Mythic Dawn back in Cyrodiil. They had cried "_To Paradise!_" as they died.

She wonders how eager they are to be here now.

--

Mankar Camoran must enjoy the sound of his own voice, because he speaks to her, incessantly, as she travels ever forward through his realm.

_So, the cat's-paw of the Septims arrives at last. You didn't think you could take me unawares, here of all places? In the Paradise that I created?_

His voice has not grown any less powerful though it echoes only in her head. His passion tugs at her. She wants to tell him that she is not a cat's-paw, that this is no paradise. But she holds her tongue. Likely he cannot hear her anyway.

—_if you are truly the hero of destiny, as I hope, the garden will not hold you for long._

She kills the dremora Kathutet and takes his armbands. Camoran's voice comes at her, rolling and thunderous, like the great rushing of a river or the cry of a god; she cannot shut it out no matter how she tries. The Band of the Chosen are heavy around her wrists. She plunges forward into the Flooded Grotto.

_How little you understand! You cannot stop Lord Dagon. Tamriel is just one more Daedric realm of Oblivion, long since lost to its Prince when he was betrayed by those that served him. Lord Dagon can not invade Tamriel, his birthright! He comes to liberate the Occupied Lands!_

Liberate? He would destroy the world. Dagon would destroy Camoran, too, without a second's thought—he is the Daedric prince of destruction and chaos. What would keep him from crushing his followers? Loyalty?

_Ask yourself! How is it that mighty gods die, yet the Daedra stand incorruptible?_

_How is it that the Daedra forthrightly proclaim themselves to man, while the gods cower behind statues and the faithless words of traitor-priests?_

_It is simple... they are not gods at all. What are Scholarship, Love and Mercy when compared to Fate, Night and Destruction?_

She thinks of Martin, who is scholarship and love and mercy if anything is, and she thinks of Mankar Camoran who has only known darkness. She wishes Camoran would be silent; for all his posturing and grand speeches he is shockingly naïve, knowing nothing beyond his own circumscribed world of night and destruction.

There is an entire pantheon of gods, and he has only ever served Lord Dagon.

And she moves forward through the Flooded Grotto and saves Eldamil from himself, and Mankar Camoran's voice rings through her mind like the tolling of a bell. Soon she is standing in the sunlight again, blinking at the rush of fresh air and brightness, and looking up at the great castle before her.

_Well done, champion! Your progress is swift and sure. Perhaps you will reach me after all._

She has never imagined that it would be otherwise.

_I have waited a long time for you, Champion of Old Tamriel. You are the last gasp of a dying age. You breathe the stale air of false hope._

_You cannot stop Lord Dagon. The walls between our worlds are crumbling. Soon, very soon, the lines now blurred will be erased. Tamriel and Oblivion rejoined! The Mythic Age Reborn! Lord Dagon shall walk Tamriel again._

_The world shall be remade. Weakness will be purged from the world, and mortal and immortal alike purified in the refiner's fire. My long duel with the Septims is over, and I have the mastery._

The great doors open before her and she moves down the length of the great hall toward the throne. Mankar Camoran's voice shifts effortlessly from her mind to her ears; he speaks, now, as she stands before him on his throne, and his words echo from the stone walls and high vaulted ceilings of his fortress.

"The Emperor is dead," Mankar Camoran says. "The Amulet of Kings is mine." He is smiling; his eyes are glowing with rapture and anticipation and in his hands is the Amulet. "And you—the last defender of the last ragged Septim—are here in the heart of my power. Shall we see who is the stronger?"

She is not his last defender, she wants to say. And Martin Septim is not ragged. But Mankar Camoran would not listen to her in any case; he has never listened to anything but his god and his own fanaticism.

So instead she brings up her bow and draws it back and sends an arrow through his throat as he rises to meet her.

--

Paradise unravels as Camoran dies. First to go is the Savage Garden, the outermost layer of this terrible place, and she can feel the souls of the Ascended Immortals blink out of existence as the world disappears around them. Then, the Flooded Grotto; it burns away quickly, curling and becoming ash like parchment thrown on a fire, and then it, too, is gone.

And finally: Carac Agaialor, the heart of Paradise.

She leaps toward him and wraps her hand around the Amulet just as the castle begins to crumble about them. Mankar Camoran's eyes are wide and startled. _No—_

_This is not what was promised to me—_

And then Paradise is gone.

--

She stumbles back into the world in a cloud of black smoke and cinders, and Martin is there, already in his battle-armor, saying "Thank the gods, you have the Amulet—"

"We must head for the Imperial City at once," Jauffre says. "Your Highness, you had best put that on."

She hands it over. Martin slips on the chain and looks down at the blood-red jewel glinting on his chest. "Emperor," she says, bowing—though in her mind she had never had a doubt.

He looks at her and he smiles. "Thank you," Martin says. "When this is over, I shall name you my Champion. You have done so much—"

Somehow they are kissing again, right there in the middle of the great hall before Jauffre and Martin's honor guard of Blades, and distantly, she hears Jauffre's groan.

"Emperor or not, he'd best not saddle me with _another_ illegitimate Septim heir," the Grandmaster grumbles.


	10. Avatar

The Imperial City is in chaos.

Oblivion gates are opening _inside_ the city, and the Imperial Legion is barely keeping the hordes of daedra at bay. They battle their way through the streets. She is almost afraid that Mankar Camoran had been right, that they are too late, that Tamriel will be lost to Lord Dagon—

But Martin has a stubborn will to rival any god's, and he has a charismatic confidence that is far greater than Camoran's had ever been. He fights on. She fights with him, protecting him as best she can as the streets run red with blood and the sky slowly turns the scorched black-and-crimson of Oblivion.

Smoke hangs heavy in the air. The city is burning.

"The Temple!" Martin shouts to her as he battles a dremora. "We must get to the Temple!"

--

_SO YOU THOUGHT TO STOP ME, LITTLE MORTALS._

The voice rolls through her mind, like flame, like thunder, a thousand times more terrible than Mankar Camoran's had ever been. She screams. Lord Dagon's laughter nearly makes her head split open from the pain, and she falls to her knees, her vision swimming, darkness crowding at the edge of her mind.

_DID YOU THINK YOU COULD?_

Martin's hand is on her elbow, dragging her up; her boots are slick with dremora blood and she stumbles and nearly slips.

_I AM MEHRUNES DAGON, AND TAMRIEL IS MINE_.

Martin is shaking her. She tries to focus on him. He is shouting something but she cannot hear him through the haze of pain. "He's here," she whispers. "Dagon is here."

_GO. RUN TO YOUR TEMPLE AND YOUR FALSE GODS. I WILL BE WAITING FOR YOU._

--

Dagon is immense and terrible, with his four arms (_—a storm a rush of plagued rain the tinder of Anu the eyes of Padhome—_) and his gaping maw, and all the fires of Oblivion behind his eyes. She tries not to look as they made a mad dash to the temple; he has not noticed them, and she prays and prays that he does not until they are ready.

(_—and the weak shall be winnowed and the timid shall be cast down and the mighty shall tremble—_)

They are in the temple now, Dagon's roaring echoing in their ears, and it is just Martin and her as she somehow knew it would be at the end—

He is calm, strangely, even though the world is dying.

"I can stop him," Martin is saying. "I think I know how to send him back." She blinks at him in bewilderment. He does? How?

"But the Dragonfires—"

He shakes his head. "It is too late for that. This is another way. I—cannot stay to rebuild Tamriel. That task falls to others. You shall have to be their hope." And, strangely, Martin is starting to glow.

"Martin—"

He touches her cheek and smiles, and she falls silent, staring at him. Why is he looking at her like that? How can he be so calm? "You never told me your name," he says, a little sadly. Light is gathering around him, faster now, all the colors of fire and molten gold; the Amulet is glittering like a fallen star.

And Martin does not kiss her, and he does not say goodbye, only turns and closes his eyes as Mehrunes Dagon comes crashing through the temple roof.

--

She lives on, but her story ends here, really, that fateful day in the Temple where Martin dies and becomes Akatosh and saves the world.

The Oblivion gates are shut. Tamriel is rebuilt, as she had known it would be, and the Council takes over the ruling of the Empire. She is named Champion of Cyrodiil.

The title sounds strange to her, for she was never Cyrodiil's Champion, but Martin's.

Sometimes, when she sleeps, she dreams of a great golden dragon with eyes the blue of Lake Rumare, and when she wakes she is never sure whether these dreams are meant to be a blessing or a curse.

She likes to pretend that time will dull the sharp pain of her memories. She likes to tell herself that it would never have worked out between them anyway, even if Martin had lived—he would have been Emperor, and she was, after all, a thief and an assassin and a commoner.

She likes to think that she hadn't really loved him.

But she never was very good at lying, even to herself.

* * *

A/N: Wow. It's done. Sorry about the ending; I actually tried to write an alternate, happy one, but it didn't work out--it felt weird and forced and I couldn't finish it.

Thanks to everyone for reading and sticking with it for so far! And, as always, reviews make me happy inside. I would especially love to hear opinions on canon vs. non-canon endings.

Look for a short companion piece coming soon.


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